


Other Things to Carry

by finishingthehat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blackwall has a pussy-eatin' beard and you can't tell me otherwise, F/M, Minor femdom, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26451139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finishingthehat/pseuds/finishingthehat
Summary: How deeply wrong was it that there was a hole in the sky and a darkspawn god who wanted her dead, and all Inquisitor Adaar could think about was one quiet soldier with blue, blue eyes?Mostly a character study through sex.
Relationships: Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Female Adaar/Blackwall (Dragon Age), Female Adaar/Blackwall | Thom Rainier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	Other Things to Carry

I don’t know how to be with you as Thom Rainier, the man who had once called himself Blackwall said.

Adaar didn’t know, either. How could she know? She didn’t even know _him._ “You loved a lie,” he had told her through the bars of a prison cell, and she hadn’t bothered to argue because it was true.

She was heartbroken, at first, and then she was angry. Perhaps that wasn’t surprising: she had been angry for most of her life. Her name was Adaar— _weapon_. For years, she had been mere mercenary scum, no better than Thom Rainier had ever been, killing for gold without qualms—never children, but that hardly made her the nonpareil of virtue. Even now, as Inquisitor, she was still an instrument of death, a sharpened tool in the hand of some greater power. No, she was no hero, despite what the rest of the Inquisition said.

But she’d always believed that Warden Blackwall was.

She had pardoned him, before the court and the Maker, with a grace she did not feel. What had been the alternative? Let him rot in prison? Or look into those teary blue eyes and hand him over to the Wardens, so he could die swarmed by darkspawn? So she pardoned him, and she kissed him, and she told him they would start over anew with nothing but honesty.

But she had not seen him since. The day after the trial, she’d mounted a two-week expedition to the Hissing Wastes and left him behind—“he needs time to readjust,” she’d told Cullen. It was a bullshit excuse and she knew Rainier would know it, but she didn’t care. Let him know. Let him see how angry she was.

When she returned to Skyhold, she was almost prepared to see him again. Almost, except for the memory of a man with despair in his eyes, gripping at the bars of a cell, begging to be left for dead—

No, she realized, she was not prepared to see him again.

“How was the expedition, Inquisitor?” asked Scout Harding as she helped Adaar unload her pack.

“It’s the Hissing Wastes. How do you think?”

Harding laughed. “That’s what I thought. I’ll make sure someone sets up a warm bath for you.”

“Thanks.” Adaar winced as she rolled her bruised shoulders back.

“Oh, and Blackwall—Rainier—whatever we’re calling him—has been asking for you.”

Adaar’s heart dropped, but she kept her expression steady. “Thank you, Scout. You’re dismissed.”

Was it better to get it over with now?

Adaar knew she’d find him in the stables. She used to sneak away from meetings to go see him, making excuses about “attending to the horses” just so she could watch him from afar, sharpening a sword or chiseling at a block of wood.

The memory of her lovesick foolishness made the rage return, thick and hot, as she walked down the steps toward the stables. She resolved to show him how much he had wounded her. She would growl, she would blame, she would demand penance from the man who had so utterly broken her heart.

But there he was, and he was just—him. The same blue eyes, the same low voice. It was like having a dream you were certain you’d had once before. Nothing had changed but her.

“My lady,” he greeted her, his head bowed.

“Hello, Thom,” she said stiffly.

“Blackwall is fine. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“So have I.” It came out sounding like an accusation. She shifted awkwardly. “I’m sorry it took me a while to come see you.”

“I understand.” He kept glancing away from her, afraid to meet her eyes. “My lady, I know this must be difficult, and I want you to know that you’re under no obligation to—”

“No, no, I shouldn’t have stayed away so long—”

“It’s my fault. This is all my fault.”

Adaar nodded, her throat tight. “You did try to warn me.”

“I did.” He laughed sadly. “I did at that.”

“I chose not to listen.”

“Still my fault.”

“I know.”

He took her hand and pulled it to his lips. Such a soft and gentlemanly gesture. So hard to believe this was the same angry, wild man she’d seen imprisoned in Val Royeaux.

“I am yours,” he said simply. “I am yours for as long as you’ll have me. I do not deserve the mercy you have shown, but since you have given it, I intend to spend the rest of my life in your service.”

And in spite of everything, when Thom Rainier leaned in to kiss her, she let him. Maker, his _lips_. His lips were the same as they had always been, warm and chapped and hungry. Adaar wanted to cry.

“I missed that,” Rainier murmured.

She nodded, but she didn’t speak.

“I know it will take time. I will wait as long as you need.”

She nodded again.

“I am always at your service, my lady.”

When Adaar returned to her room, her head was aching. Scout Harding, true to her word, had sent someone to prepare a bath for her, and as Adaar sunk into the warm, lightly scented water, she remembered the first time Rainier had come to her room. Vivid memories of moonlit skin and desperate hands flooded her mind.

In that moment, she had felt so certain she knew him. But he had been Blackwall then, and she had been someone else too.

**_______________**

**_the first night_ **

He pushed her up against the banister, kissing her hungrily. She pushed back, grabbed his shirt by the collar, barely stopping to breathe between fiery, ragged kisses. As soon as the spell was broken, he would leave. He would say something about “not worthy,” and bow his head sadly, and walk out yet again, and she would be left alone. Adaar kissed him as if her life depended on it. In the moment, it seemed like it did.

When she leaned back against the banister, they were at eye level; she could see his moonlit face, the way his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he pulled off his gloves. His bare hands cupped her cheeks—strong hands, calloused and weathered—and when Adaar reached up to touch his fingers, the Mark on her hand glowed slightly. Bare skin met skin. Her heart beat faster.

She bit Blackwall’s lower lip, a little harder than she meant to, and he moaned against her mouth, a soft, low sound that trickled down her core. She wanted him so badly, had wanted this for so long, wanted it now, more than anything—

She instinctively reached to undo the clasps on her leather tunic, unclasping just a few before Blackwall’s hands covered hers. “May I?” he whispered.

She nodded. Blackwall began to undo the tunic, moving deliberately, almost painfully slowly. Adaar had to resist the temptation to push him away and rip it off herself. She contented herself with watching the look on the warden’s face—the furrow of his brow, the curl of his lip, the focus in his expression. He was so handsome, so undeniably, unshakably handsome. How had she kept herself from him for so long?

When the last clasp was undone, Blackwall looked up at her for confirmation and then pulled the tunic off and let it fall to the floor. He took a step back, staring at her. “Maker help me,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”

She was glad his eyes were so firmly fixated on her breasts. If he looked up, he would see her blushing and smiling like an idiot.

He moved in and cupped each breast before taking one nipple into his mouth, the sudden warmth of his tongue making Adaar gasp. Then he rolled each nipple under his thumbs, pinching till both stood at full attention, before going back in to lick and suck at the sensitive buds. He took his time, with careful, attentive touches, focusing solely on her.

Blackwall pulled away and looked at her, just _looked_ , for a long moment. Too long. Adaar’s pulse quickened. He was thinking of leaving, wasn’t he? He was repelled by her. That was it. It was her, her body, her horns, her Mark. He was disgusted, and it was her fault, and he would leave her and never return.

When he opened his mouth to speak, she kissed him desperately, then pushed him backward onto the bed and began undoing his trousers. No time to waste. A noise of surprise escaped him as she continued to undress him, quickly, sloppily. She fumbled to undo her own pants—Blackwall reached out to help, but she ignored him—then kicked off her boots and got on her knees, reaching toward his erection.

“My lady, wait.” Blackwall grabbed her hand sharply, but his touch was gentle. “I’m sorry, I don’t—” He exhaled slowly and shook his head. “I don’t want to hurry this.”

“You don’t want to have sex.” She knew it. Of course he didn’t. Not with her.

“No, I do!” he said fervently. “Believe me, my lady, there is nothing I would rather do right now.” He reached out to stroke her hair. It was such an unbearably soft touch. “But I’d like to take my time tonight, if I may.” His hand went to the bun between her horns where her hair was pulled back. “May I—?”

Adaar nodded wordlessly, and he undid the knot with slightly clumsy fingers. Long silver hair fell down her shoulders, and Blackwall’s hands followed, feeling the line of her body, down the curve of her breasts, her waist, her hips, her thighs. And then his hands reached toward hers, helped her up onto the bed, and pulled her close to him, where they lay still for a moment. She could feel his heart beating against her hands, just slightly out of sync from her own heartbeat.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” he said. “Longer than I probably ought to admit.”

“Me too.” Adaar breathed him in. He smelled peppery and musky and earthy. Like a summer night. A little like the horses he spent his time around. She let herself touch him, the way she’d been longing to for months now: the roughness of his beard, the sturdiness of his shoulders, the strength of his formidable arms. His body was scarred all over, little rivers both old and new mapped out on his skin. His chest, tanned and muscular, felt firm and warm as it slowly rose up and down beneath her touch—but when she slipped her hands down his body, she felt him tense up sharply.

“Is this all right?” Adaar asked.

“Yes. Yes, that’s all right. I’m just, ah…a little out of practice. I’ve been alone a very long time.”

“Then show me.” Adaar pulled her hands back. “Show me what you did, all those years on your own.”

Blackwall took a long breath, closed his eyes, and then reached for his cock. A few long testing strokes with his hand, and then he established a rhythm, twisting slightly at the tip. Adaar watched the motion of his hand, the way his breath caught and shuddered, the twitching of his lips. After a minute or so, she cautiously moved to replace Blackwall’s hand. Her hands were larger than his, but her fingers were slimmer and defter. Lockpick’s fingers.

He moaned in approval and reached over to touch her in return. His hand ran down her chest, down her abs, to the grey curls between her legs. A finger brushed over her folds—a hushed “Maker!” fell from his lips as he felt how wet she was—and rubbed small circles over her clitoris.

And then he was on top of her, hungry and thorough, lowering his face down toward her groin. A few kisses on her inner thighs, her hipbones, her bellybutton, and right above her pubic mound—and then he dove in, pulling her long legs over his shoulders as he pressed his tongue flat against her vulva. Adaar felt a strangled gasp escape her throat. For a man who’d been living alone in the woods for years, he certainly remembered exactly how to do _this_.

His hands were squeezing tightly at her hips as his tongue worked against her. His beard rubbed against her thighs, scratchy but far from unpleasant—like the friction he built inside her as he licked and sucked at her throbbing clit. More, more of him, more of this—

“Your fingers,” Adaar gasped, and Blackwall took the hint and entered her with one thick, calloused finger, moving slowly, painfully slowly, and then adding another finger. She bucked against his hand, building a rhythm.

Blackwall came up to breathe for a moment, his beard shining with her wetness. “You are magnificent, my lady.”

“Shadah,” she said. “You can call me Shadah Adaar.”

“Shadah Adaar.” He spoke the words like a prayer. No one had called her Shadah in a long time. To the Valo-Kas, she had been only Adaar, and for the last several months, she had been the Herald of Andraste, and then the Inquisitor. _Shadah_. It was like a childhood nickname now: embarrassing, strange, comforting. But for Blackwall to know it felt right.

He was ministering to her again, working his fingers and tongue in unison, licking and sucking and flicking, his fingers curling up to find a sweet spot and pounding hard and oh Maker oh Maker oh Maker—

“Blackwall—!” And then she came, shuddering and quivering against his tongue. His fingers continued to pulse inside her, feeling out the wave of her climax, but she pushed his hands away. “I want you inside me now.”

He let out a low groan of arousal, his eyes dark and hungry, and he looked strong, almost _feral_ as he leaned over her and kissed her hard, his chapped lips tasting of her musk. Strands of his dark hair had fallen loosely around his face. Adaar was unable to wait another second to feel him; she grabbed his hips and guided him toward her entrance.

And then he entered her, slowly and carefully, every inch of him pushing tightly against her inner walls. She pulled him further, as deep as he would go, until she was lightheaded from the pressure of him inside of her—

“Fuck.” He growled as he thrust into her again, one hand reaching up to touch her breasts. Adaar’s hands wrapped around his firm shoulders, marveling at the feel of the cold sweat on his skin and the way his back rippled tightly underneath her grip as he fucked her. Oh, he was good at this.

It didn’t take long, but Adaar didn’t care. She was transfixed by the sight of him, the sound of him, the _feel_ of him. When it was clear he was close, she dug her nails into his back and whispered his name into his ear. That did it. He moaned something incomprehensible as he pulled out, came onto the sheets, and then collapsed next to Adaar, breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment.

“For what?”

“I’m afraid I’m not…” He sighed, his breath still uneven. “Well. Like I said, I’ve been alone for a long time.”

“It’s been a long time for me too,” she admitted. “Most men around here aren’t interested in a horned giantess with a glowing hand.”

She felt Blackwall shift to look at her. “Now that is completely untrue.”

“Is it?” Adaar laughed lightly, but Blackwall’s brow furrowed.

“Do you mean to tell me you don’t know how unbelievably beautiful you are?”

“Blackwall—”

“Do you not notice how utterly wild you make me? And everyone else around you? The way people stare when you walk into a room—”

“Because I’m a giant ox-woman.”

“No. Because you’re bloody incredible. Do you know how long I’ve wanted nothing more than to do this?” He kissed her lips. “Shadah Adaar. You make me feel like I’m going mad. For months, I’ve been able to think about nothing else but you.” He kissed her neck, sucking firmly against the sensitive skin above her collarbone. “Remember the other day when that Venatori bastard got me on the leg? The truth is that I was distracted by how good your ass looks when you’re fighting.” Adaar laughed as Blackwall kissed her nose. “I’ve spent so many nights imagining what this would feel like, and yet it’s still beyond anything I could have dreamed.”

And then his mouth was between her legs again, pulsing and pushing and pleasing, hitting every nerve of her almost-too-sensitive clit until she came again: a quiet, unhurried orgasm that left her pleasantly weary.

They lay in silence as their breaths evened out; slowly, Adaar curled up toward Blackwall. This sort of thing always took a little maneuvering, as a Qunari—one sharp movement of her head, and someone would get thwacked in the face by a massive horn. It meant that she was usually most comfortable lying down on her stomach—or, as she was finding, face-down into Blackwall’s chest.

He spoke, his chest vibrating slightly against her cheek. “I’d always wondered how you Qunari sleep with those horns in the way. Wondered if you have special pillows or something.”

“Oh yes. Special blood magic Qunari pillows made from the bones of our enemies.”

He laughed, then placed a kiss at the base of each of her horns. “I’ll have to get one of those for myself.”

And then it was quiet, perfectly quiet, with only the sound of Blackwall’s breathing in time with hers. She was beginning to drift off when she felt him shift underneath her and get off the bed.

She shot up. “Don’t go,” she cried out before she knew what she was saying.

Blackwall turned back to her and chuckled. “I was only going to get a drink. But if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll very happily die of thirst right here.”

“Oh.” Adaar shook her head, feeling stupid. “I’m sorry. Go on.”

He sat back down on the bed and took her hand. “Is everything all right?”

She meant to say yes, but instead found herself saying, “I don’t want you to leave.”

Blackwall’s eyes had such a profound tenderness to them sometimes. It was one of the first things she’d noticed about him—that this bulky, gruff, hairy woodsman had puppy dog eyes. There was always something inside them, sad and lonely, that made her want to hold him close and stroke his hair. But now they looked so… soft. So devastatingly breakable.

“My lady,” he said, and then corrected himself, “Shadah Adaar. I am not going anywhere. It would take all the darkspawn in the Deep Roads to drag me away from you.”

“Is that a promise?”

“An oath.”

A Grey Warden’s oath. She smiled, traced the lines around Blackwall’s eyes, and then kissed the tip of his nose. A Grey Warden’s oath had to count for something.

**_______________**

Cullen called a war table meeting to discuss the next step in the assault on Caer Bronach.

“You’ll need a strong defense,” Cullen said. “I recommend taking Blackwall. He hasn’t seen the heat of battle since we brought him back from Val Royeaux. It’ll be valuable to have him back on our ranks.”

Adaar hesitated, then slowly shook her head. “I—”

Leliana spoke. “Commander, I disagree. I think it would be best for Blackwall to stay and help with training.”

Adaar glanced over at the spymaster, who gave her a knowing look. Of course Leliana knew. Leliana knew everything.

Cullen frowned. “Well, if you’re certain. The recruits are certainly glad to have Blackwall around. Even if his presence has encouraged many of our more impressionable young recruits to attempt to grow beards.” He sighed. “It’s not a pretty sight.”

Once the meeting was adjourned, Adaar walked toward the tavern. Mid-morning, and she already needed a drink.

It had been a long, long week since she had last seen Thom Rainier. She’d spent her time at Skyhold carefully avoiding him, planning out her schedule and pointedly avoiding the stables. She’d even enlisted one of Leliana’s spies to alert her when he was near.

How deeply wrong was it that there was a hole in the sky and a darkspawn god who wanted her dead, and all she could think about was one quiet soldier with blue, blue eyes?

She sat down at the bar and opened her mouth to speak, but Cabot had already placed a mug in front of her. “The good stuff,” he said. “You look like you need it.”

“I do. Thanks.”

Adaar drained the mead quickly, savoring the uncomfortable burning in the back of her throat. She should have been better at this—filtering the hurt, that was. This was hardly her first time being lied to. It wasn’t even her first time being betrayed by someone she loved. It didn’t hurt. It _shouldn’t_ hurt.

The minstrel, whose name Adaar could never seem to remember, was singing in the corner.

_“Oh, Grey Warden,  
What have you done?  
The oath you have taken  
Is all but broken.  
  
Ally or Foe?  
Maker only knows.  
Ally or Foe?  
The Maker only knows.”_

Cabot placed another mug in front of her, but drinking had suddenly lost its appeal. Adaar stood up and walked out into the morning sun. Everything seemed too bright, too warm, and there were too many recruits standing around, laughing and talking. Adaar’s head was thrumming. Didn’t these people have jobs to be doing? Wasn’t there a war to be fighting? She glanced toward the armory, expecting to see Cassandra telling the recruits off—

And there was Thom Rainier. He sat in front of the armory, sharpening a sword, and there was that look in his eye—that sharp, focused look that usually preceded a battle, like a man staring death in the face. Adaar swallowed tightly. Leliana’s spy needed to be fired.

Blackwall had once showed her his method for producing a perfect edge. It was all in the angle, he said: keep the angle consistent and the touch light, and you’d get the sharpest edge you’d ever seen. She thought of that now as he watched him, the way his practiced hands guided the blade across the whetstone without a single hitch. Celestine Black, he’d called it once. Adaar remembered. She remembered most everything he said to her.

She took another step closer, watching him as he sanded down the edges of the blade with quick, rough strokes, working slowly down the hard length of steel. His breathing accelerated as he exerted himself more and more, sweat beading at his hairline, but his face was still calm. He could have handed such a mundane task over to Harritt, or Dagna, or anyone else, but Adaar knew he would never do that. He loved the work. There was a sort of artistry to the way his hands connected with the blade.

Adaar found herself moving closer and closer, but if Rainier had noticed her already, he didn’t acknowledge it. He removed his gloves, revealing thick, strong fingers with dark hair on the knuckles, and tested the edge of the blade between two thumbs before nodding once in approval and rolling up his sleeves. Veins showed in his muscular forearms as he took a slow, controlled practice swing.

Then he pulled out a small bottle of oil and slathered it over the steel. One hand gripped firmly at the hilt while the other carefully took a dark cloth and let it glide across the metal shaft—long, smooth strokes against the lubricated surface, which shone wetter and wetter with each pass of the cloth. He had put too much oil on; it dripped slightly at the edges, one drop of oil falling from the tip of the blade and landing on his shoe.

He examined the blade and made a low, throaty murmur of assent, and by the Maker, Adaar had had enough. She walked right up to him, grabbed the sword from his hand, and pulled him by the collar to her lips. “That’s enough,” she growled, a breath away from his face. “Meet me in my room in ten minutes.”

Thom Rainier smiled. “As you wish, my lady.”

Ten minutes later, they were crashing against each other. As he pushed her up against the wall, his hand firmly on her ass, he mumbled invocations, prayers barely intelligible between fierce, wet kisses. Adaar leaned down, grinding her lower body desperately against his. “You knew what you were doing,” she panted. “With that sword. You knew what that was doing to me.”

“I had an inkling,” he said with a soft chuckle.

Adaar rubbed her thigh against the bulge in his trousers. “Cruel.”

He pulled off one of Adaar’s gloves and sucked at her fingers. “Maker, you’re fucking beautiful, you know that?” He stood on tiptoes to lick up the length of her jawbone, then bite at her earlobe, causing her to inhale sharply and dig her nails into his back. He laughed, his breath hot on her ear. “More of that?”

“More of that.”

He obliged, continuing to lick and bite at her ear. He worked his way down, unbuttoning her tunic to better access the length of her neck, then returned back to her ear to nip at the pointed tip and suck on the delicate skin on her earlobe. Adaar found herself moaning, “Blackw—”

She stopped herself from finishing the word. The lips at her ear stopped moving. She pulled away.

Thom Rainier didn’t meet her eyes. “Like I said before. Blackwall is fine.”

She knew that. But it didn’t feel fine. Not like this. He knew that, too.

“I’m sorry, Shadah,” he said, still looking down, and the anger filled her again, almost neighbor to her lust, just as wet and hard and hot.

“Don’t call me Shadah.”

He was silent.

After a moment, she spoke again. “I thought I was ready, but—”

“I understand, my lady. I’ll leave you be.” He left with a bow.

Adaar watched him go. As she buttoned her tunic, she realized her hands were shaking. How things had changed. She had gone from begging him to stay to forcing him to leave.

That night, she was back in the Fade, but this time, she was alone. She saw the face of the Nightmare, with its hundreds of blinking, blinking eyes, and it peered at her and stuck its tongues at her and whispered, _What are you scared of_?

Spiders, she said, and it laughed with a hundred voices. _Spiders!_

**_______________**

**_the last night_ **

Blackwall’s loft was right above the stables, a shoddy room—hardly a room at all—full of matted bales of hay and half-splintered pieces of scrap wood. It wasn’t exactly an Orlesian chateau, but no matter how cold and smelly and dirty their surroundings were, Blackwall’s arms were warm and firm around Adaar’s waist, and that was more than enough for her.

Blackwall broke apart from her, pressing his forehead against hers and shaking his head. “Shadah, you need to know that I’m not worthy of you.”

Her heart sunk. Not this again. “Blackwall—”

“There’s no future for us with me as a Warden,” he insisted. “There’s nothing for us. For me.”

“I don’t care,” she responded firmly. “Whatever our future is, whatever comes next, we’re here now.”

Maker, that look in his eyes. Like he was trying so desperately to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. Adaar desperately wished she could reach into his heart and cut away whatever it was that made him hurt so badly.

After a long moment, Blackwall nodded. “Then for now, let there be nothing else. No one else.”

And then he kissed her with such extraordinary tenderness that Adaar could almost forget the expression on his face moments before.

His hands made their way down her body. They had learned the lines and shape of it now; knew which touches made her gasp and shudder, and took no time getting there. Adaar let herself melt into it, let the beat of her heart and the throbbing between her legs drown out the voice in her head that wondered why, even so close to her, did Blackwall seem so far away.

He was moving against her now, and pushing her gently backward onto his bed—although “bed” was a generous description for the haybale he slept on.

“I’m afraid it’s not quite as comfortable as your bed,” he said sheepishly, picking a piece of straw out of her hair.

“I don’t mind,” Adaar said with a laugh. “I’ve slept in worse places. Although you know there are empty rooms in the castle, if you want one.”

He didn’t answer, instead kissing down the length of her neck, undoing clasps as he went. He removed her shirt and placed it to the side with surprising care, and then licked down her bare chest, pausing to nip at the spot between her breasts that he knew made her laugh and gasp at the same time. And then he began to suckle at her nipples, glancing up every few seconds to gaze at her worshipfully. And even Adaar, still too tall, still too out-of-place in the Inquisition, couldn’t help but feel magnificent with Warden Blackwall looking at her like she was the only woman in the world.

Then he sunk between her legs. His skilled tongue could have brought her to climax within seconds, if he chose, but he always took his time with it, drinking her in slowly and patiently. His fingers and tongue explored each crevice of her, lapping gently at the soft folds near her entrance and sucking at her clit before entering her with his tongue. Adaar spread her legs wider to allow him deeper inside her, feeling his beard tickling at her thighs and rubbing slightly against her clitoris. He brought her to the edge once—twice—but always withdrew at the last second, causing her to growl in frustration.

“Patience, my lady,” he said, looking up at her with sinfully dark eyes.

She sighed, but she waited—and when he did finish her, Maker, it was _worth it_. She exploded like _gaatlok_ against his mouth, shuddering in blissful ecstasy for longer than she thought possible—and he, meanwhile, continued to drink her in, like a man parched in the desert. She had to pull his head away when the sensation became too much.

“Where _did_ you learn how to do that?” Adaar asked breathlessly, once the convulsions had subsided.

He shrugged, his half-smile a mixture of pride and embarrassment. “One picks up a few tricks on the road.”

“Clearly.” And she rolled Blackwall onto his back to return the favor.

There were a few dark hickeys on his neck and upper chest, memories of the last few weeks together. Blackwall’s skin was thick and strong—hard to leave a mark on—but Adaar had her ways. And Blackwall appreciated it, if the moans he let out were any indication.

She looked at him for a moment, memorizing the lines around his eyes and the scars on his skin. He was weathered. She’d always liked that about him. There were enough warriors in the Inquisition with youth and naivete. Adaar had seen battles, and pain, and plenty of dark winters. She liked that Blackwall had too.

Was it too much to hope they could see the rest of those winters together?

“What is it?” Blackwall asked after a moment of silence.

“Nothing,” she said, and then knelt down and undid his pants.

“You don’t have to—” he began.

“I want to.” She pulled out his erection and took it into her mouth. He didn’t like for her to service him, probably for the same reason he slept in a barn when he could have had a luxurious bed imported from Val Royeaux. But she couldn’t resist the prospect of his cock in her mouth, hard and full and ready to be sucked—and above all else, those wicked sounds of pleasure that escaped from him as she did it! There was such a sense of deep-rooted satisfaction in knowing that the most stoic man in the Inquisition could come so thoroughly undone beneath her touch.

She ran her tongue down his length and then took him down her throat in one motion. She couldn’t keep it far down for long, so she returned to the tip and then back down, savoring the taste of his salty skin. When she took him to the hilt again, she could feel his cock twitch in her mouth. He was already getting close.

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall gasped out.

“Or yours,” she said with a laugh, leaning down to lick at his balls. She sucked gently, at first, and then firmer: her hand stroking at his erection as her mouth pleasured him below. Blackwall made a noise that was unreal, _unholy_ , and as she rubbed her thighs together, she realized they were soaking wet again.

She grabbed Blackwall’s hand and guided it to her pussy. “Do you feel how wet you make me?”

He groaned with surprise and arousal. “Oh, you’re too good, you’re too good—”

And Adaar plunged her mouth down his length without warning, sucking hard and swirling around him with her tongue—and there was that telltale shiver of his lower body again, warning her that he was getting dangerously close.

Blackwall caught her cheek in one strong hand. “Hold a moment, Shadah, before I—” He laughed breathlessly and shook his head. “Oh, the things you do to me.”

He pulled her up to kiss her, and she straddled his lap, gently grinding against him. “Did you see this coming?” she asked. “When I came to find you in the woods?”

“Do you mean, did I fantasize about this every night since the first time I laid eyes on you? If so, the answer is yes.” He smiled and curled a few fingers into her hair. “But if you’re asking if I ever thought it could ever truly happen—that someone like you could ever desire someone like me—”

“Shh.” And Adaar shut him up with her lips, and tongue, and teeth, and by the sudden pressure of her inner muscles clenching around him as she slid down the length of his cock.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Fuck, Shadah, I—Tell me what you want. Whatever you want, it is yours.”

“Look at me,” she said, and he did, his eyes dark and full. Oh, he was so beautiful. She had to press her lips against his to keep herself from saying something foolish.

Adaar rode him slowly, slowly—his hips bucked up against hers, trying to move quicker, but she kept her pace steady.

Blackwall let out a desperate noise. “You drive me wild, you know that?”

She smiled. “I try.”

She continued to roll her hips against him, forcing herself to keep the angle shallow and low. Blackwall reached out to thumb her clit—and now it was _he_ who was too patient, too maddeningly slow and steady. She rubbed up desperately against his thumb, but it wasn’t enough. A hiss of barely-suppressed desire escaped her lips, but she made herself stay strong for just a moment longer, just long enough to watch Blackwall’s brow furrow in frustration, sweat beading on his forehead, his expression close to breaking—

And then she rolled onto her back, pulling him on top of her, and whispered, “All right, Ser Blackwall. Time to fuck me hard.”

And he did, driving into her with one long, merciless thrust: and then the rest was lost in a haze of sensation and heat. At some point, Blackwall grabbed a pillow and placed it under her to raise her hips, and then he drove in, harder and harder, so fucking _deep_ , so full inside her. She watched his cock entering her again and again, unable to look away—was that her moaning, or was it him? She couldn’t tell anymore.

His thumb returned to her clit, harder and faster this time, and it was just right, just enough for her to return to the edge of that cliff again. _Gaatlok_ once more, in her belly, on her tongue. Her back arched straight up—

And Blackwall was still going, still pounding her through the wave of her orgasm, but she couldn’t see him anymore, couldn’t see _anything._ Her body squeezed tight around his cock as his pace became more and more erratic.

“Shadah,” he said hoarsely, “I’m going to—”

She wrapped her legs tightly around his hips. “Inside me.”

A few more hard, deep, thrusts—fuck, _fuck!_ —and he came with a low moan, pulsing hot inside of her.

After a moment, she unlocked her legs from around his hips, but Blackwall stayed there, not moving. A few beads of sweat rolled from the tips of his loose hair, dropping onto Adaar’s bare chest as he gazed down at her. She could feel him softening inside her—a surprisingly pleasant sensation—and she laughed and raised her eyebrows. “Do you need something?”

“I, uh—” He smiled sheepishly. “This may sound odd, but, uh—do you know the feeling when you’re in a hot bath, and you just know that as soon as you get out, you’ll be cold and miserable? Well, it—it’s warm here.”

Adaar pulled him close to her. “Then stay as long as you want.”

And he did. He rested his head between her breasts, his bare skin against hers, as his breaths grew slower and heavier. Adaar stroked softly through his hair, surprised and terrified at how _happy_ she was. Had she ever felt like this? Had she ever known this kind of closeness, this kind of swelling inside her that seemed too much to contain? As the minutes passed, she was unable to stop the words that had hung on her tongue all night, and finally—

“I love you,” she said.

There was silence.

When Blackwall finally spoke, he sounded close to tears. “Oh, Shadah. You shouldn’t.”

And when Adaar woke up the next morning, the room was bare and cold. Blackwall was gone.

**_______________**

Dorian and Bull were sleeping together. They couldn’t have kept it a secret even if they tried—and, for what it was worth, they didn’t seem to be trying very hard. Discretion had never been Iron Bull’s strong suit.

Cole was equally bad at maintaining the illusion of privacy, apparently unaware how his nonchalant observations made everyone else blush and squirm. **“** You act like you're in charge, The Iron Bull, but it's really Dorian,” Cole commented as they trudged through Crestwood. “He decides when, and you measure it carefully, enough to enjoy, to energize, but never to anger. He is tied, teased, tantalized, but it's tempered to what he wants. He submits, but you serve.”

Adaar snorted, grateful that Dorian wasn’t around to hear this particular conversation. She was even more grateful that Cole usually stayed out of her head—she didn’t need anyone else knowing what burned through her mind these days.

She stole a sidelong glance at Thom Rainier, who gave Iron Bull a playful smack on the back. “Glad to know things are going well with you and the mage,” Rainier said, unsuccessfully trying to hide a grin. “Here I was worried you had gotten _roped_ into it.”

Iron Bull rolled his eyes. Adaar started to laugh, but stopped herself.

Things had changed now that Rainier was back in the Inquisitor’s party. Adaar ignored him, mostly; if she had to speak to him, it was with clear, cold authority. He would respond with a nod and polite deference. They didn’t acknowledge the tension between them. They barely met eyes. Adaar wanted to scream.

But Cullen was right. They needed him. They were taking far less injuries now that he was back on the front lines. Thom Rainier was not a Grey Warden, but he was still a good soldier.

And Caer Bronach was no easy fight.

The fortress had been overrun with highwaymen, low-life mercenaries and bandits preying on the traders who came through the area. This was a particularly formidable group, and Leliana’s intelligence warned that they had a vicious chief lying in wait at the fortress. Adaar readied herself for the onslaught, daggers ready, trying not to think that in another life, she might have still been a mercenary like them.

Iron Bull led the assault, charging in and taking the brunt of the attack. Rainier followed close behind, holding the line as Cole and Adaar darted in and out of the range of fire. Things seemed to be going well, for a moment—but then the tide quickly changed.

Cole was caught between two swordsmen at the peak of the tower. A cry for help, and Rainier was instantly running to his side—leaving Iron Bull unguarded against the archers on the upper levels. Adaar had been staying back, picking bandits off from afar, but when she turned to see Iron Bull with three arrows lodged in his massive shoulder, she leapt to defend him, forced into the fray.

She ran up ahead toward Bull, but before she could reach him, something struck her on the leg. Falling backward with the sudden force, her back smacked hard against the cold, wet stone. She lay there, stunned, the wind knocked out of her.

And a massive, cloaked man wearing an Avvar helm stood over her. Blood dripped from off his massive spiked maul and fell onto Adaar’s face.

“This is the so-called Herald of Andraste?” the chief snarled.

She tried to get up, but the chief stepped hard on her leg. She cried out in pain.

He reached down and pulled up her left hand—the Mark shone faintly through her leather glove. He spat at it. “Your Inquisition is nothing.”

Adaar growled and lunged forward with all her strength, grabbing him by the knees and knocking him down. She bit into his arm as her hands fumbled desperately for her blades, which had fallen in the scuffle, so close but just out of reach—

The chief wrenched her teeth off him, howling with rage. “Ox-man bitch!”

Adaar stumbled to her feet. She tasted blood, but she didn’t know if it was his or hers. The chief raised his maul, and her mind raced. Could she feint? Strike him from behind? Could she—

A heavy, long blade sliced through the air and took off the chief’s head in one fell motion.

Thom Rainier stood behind where the chief had been. “Are you all right, Inquisitor?”

“I had that under control!” Adaar shouted.

Rainier sheathed his sword and bowed his head. “Of course, my lady. I apologize.”

He wasn’t being sarcastic, just chivalrous, and so damnably, damnably kind. Adaar glared at him, then spat blood onto the stone below. It joined a puddle of rainwater. Why was Crestwood so dark and rainy? Adaar hated the rain. Adaar hated this place. Adaar hated that she didn’t understand Rainier anymore.

She looked up to say something to him, but he had gone.

Later that day, Inquisition claimed Caer Bronach for their own.

They spent the night at an inn in Crestwood Village—free of charge, the innkeeper said, to thank them for clearing out the highwaymen. After they attended to their wounds, the group gathered for a brief celebratory drink.

“Give us a toast, boss,” Iron Bull bellowed, raising his ale.

“I don’t know,” Adaar said with a weary attempt at a laugh. “I’m not feeling up to much of a celebration.”

Bull waved that aside. “We took on a fortress today, boss. Have a fuckin’ drink.”

“The Inquisitor can make up her own mind,” Rainier told him, meeting Adaar’s eyes briefly before looking away.

Cole spoke quietly. “Close, caring, caught. The face is the same, but the new name gnaws at the knots, she knows but does not know—”

“Cole,” Adaar warned.

“I’m sorry.” He lowered his eyes. “There’s a lot of hurt. I can’t always ignore it.”

Adaar avoided looking at the others. One long, slow breath and then she raised her glass: “To surviving.”

And then she turned and headed up the stairs.

She took the room at the end of the hall—it was nothing spectacular, but it probably beat sleeping outside. They’d provided a small metal tub for her, at least, and she spent the next hour sitting in the lukewarm water, watching it turn murky with the traces of blood and dirt and sweat.

_There’s a lot of hurt_.

She dressed in a thin set of cotton clothing and braided her hair back the way her mother had once taught her. Her mother—now, she would have told Adaar to cut off Thom Rainier’s thumbs for hurting her. “Show him you won’t suffer that kind of treatment,” she’d say. And her father would have agreed, but replaced “thumbs” with “balls.” Her parents would have said a lot of things.

Voices came from outside the door. Iron Bull and Rainier. Adaar froze in place.

“…is it really that obvious?” Rainier was speaking.

Iron Bull responded. “I’m Ben-Hassrath. I’m trained to pick up on this kind of thing. But also, yeah, it’s pretty damn obvious.”

A sigh. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any clue what I’m supposed to do here?”

“You could leave. Too obvious?”

“I swore an oath to this Inquisition—”

“Yeah, yeah, you and your oaths. Then stay. I don’t have any problem with you being here, Blackwall. It’s not really my business.”

“That’s not the point. The problem is—does _she_ want me to stay?”

There was silence.

Adaar pressed her head against the door, but all she could hear was the sound of Iron Bull’s heavy footsteps receding down the hallway.

She waited a few moments, her heart pounding wildly, and before she could lose her nerve, she opened the door.

Rainier turned in surprise. “Inquisitor. I hope I didn’t disturb your rest.”

“No.” She hoped it wasn’t obvious she’d just been eavesdropping. “I just wanted to—well, I wondered if you were—feeling well?” The words sounded stupid, even to her.

“Yes, Inquisitor.” He scratched at his nose and shifted awkwardly. “And—and you?”

“I’m fine.”

There was silence. Then Rainier cleared his throat. “I’ll let you get to sleep, then.” He turned to the door across the hall.

“Rainier—” Adaar started.

He turned back.

“Thank you. You saved my life today.”

He shook his head. “No, Inquisitor, I didn’t.”

Adaar started to protest, but he stopped her.

“I didn’t,” he said, more firmly, and then his lip twisted up in a sad smile. “You know, when we first met, I worried about you. I hardly knew you, but I knew you were the most important person I’d ever met. And as time went on, I knew you were also the most remarkable. But the more I fought with you, the less I worried. You’re the strongest fucking person in this Inquisition, and you don’t need me to defend you. You could take down an army by yourself. But if you’ll have me, I will remain your obedient soldier till the end. Whether or not you need me.”

His eyes were tender and shining blue, but he didn’t speak of love, only of war. And Adaar wanted to scream that she wanted more, that she needed more, that she had plenty of soldiers, what she wanted was _him—_

But all that came out was, “I had forgotten how well we fight together.”

He smiled. “I had not forgotten, my lady.”

And he bowed and retreated into the room across the hall.

Adaar lay in bed, exhausted but unable to sleep.

_What are you scared of?_ asked the Nightmare.

She was scared of waking up alone. She was scared of looking in the mirror and seeing someone she didn’t recognize. She was scared of losing control. She was scared that she had unstitched herself to this man, told her things she’d never told anyone, but she didn’t know him, she had never really known him, and now she didn’t know if she’d lost the one person she ever truly loved—

She was scared of losing control.

And suddenly, she understood.

She put on her boots, walked to the room across the hall, and swung the door open without knocking. Blackwall—dressed in loose cotton clothing, sitting on the bed reading quietly—jumped to his feet. “Inquisitor, I didn’t expect—”

Adaar kissed him so hard he stumbled back onto the bed. A muffled noise of surprise escaped him, but then he kissed back, his mouth burning hot against hers. Maker, it felt so _right._ Adaar had to force herself to pull away.

“Don’t speak.” She tore her lips from his, but she kept her hand tight on his collar. “I am angry at you. I also happen to be in love with you. And I miss you so badly it hurts. But things can’t go back to the way they were. Not yet. If we’re going to do this, you’re going to have to work very hard to regain my trust. And until you do, I have to be completely in control. Do you understand?”

Blackwall nodded, his eyes wide. Adaar let go of his collar and took a few steps back.

“Your body will be mine to command, just as you are on the battlefield. You will touch me only with permission. You will not touch yourself without permission. You will refer to me as ‘my lady’ or ‘mistress,’ or any other terms we agree upon. If you fail to obey these rules, you will be punished. And—most importantly—you will stop me if you ever feel uncomfortable or unsafe.”

He stared at her, eyes wide, pupils dilated, mouth slightly open. She grabbed him by the chin. “Are these terms acceptable?”

“Maker, _yes,_ ” he groaned out.

“Good. Then get on your knees and show me how much you’ve missed me.”

And he did. He had her boots and her trousers off in seconds, and then his mouth was on her, planting kisses on her toes, her calves, her thighs, her wet folds. Lapping eagerly, desperately; his beard tickled and rubbed at her thighs, while his tongue alternated quick, practiced flicks with long, hard strokes.

Oh, she had missed this.

He looked up at her, beard shining with her wetness. “Does that please you, my lady?”

“Very much. Keep it up and I may let you fuck me tonight.”

He sunk his face between her legs with a renewed vigor, sucking her clit as his tongue flicked out; one thick finger entered her pussy, and she had to restrain herself from whimpering. Restraint, she thought, _restraint_ —as surely as she held Blackwall’s head between her legs, she was restraining the part of her that longed to let him take her right then.

But he looked so good like this, so willing and reverent between her thighs. Adaar couldn’t help but pull him to his feet so she could look him up and down.

“You once said I had the whole world at my feet, yourself included?” she asked.

“You do, my lady.”

“Prove it. Undress for me.”

He eagerly began to tear off his loose cloth shirt, his fingers fumbling at the laces.

Adaar shook her head. “Slower.”

He obeyed, and now his pace was tantalizing, painfully so. He looked up at Adaar, a half-smile playing on his lips. Maker, did he _know_ exactly how good he looked like this, sweating and slick, covered in thick dark hair and pale, puckered scars? Did he know how much Adaar longed to take his thick cock into her mouth until he came, hot against her tongue?

“On the bed,” she managed to say. “On your back.”

He obediently climbed onto the bed and lay down. Adaar was still half-clothed; she removed her top and threw it to the side, massaging slightly at her nipples. Blackwall watched her hungrily, but he stayed still. Good boy.

She ran a finger down his chest, the barest hint of touch. His body shivered in reaction. “Do you think you’ve served well, soldier?”

Silence. Then— “No, my lady.”

“No?”

Something had shifted in Blackwall’s face. He didn’t meet Adaar’s eyes as he repeated, “No, my lady.”

Those poor sad eyes of his. Adaar couldn’t keep herself from breaking when she looked at them. She kissed his forehead. “Well then, soldier. You still have time to do your duty, don’t you?”

The slightest smile appeared on his lips as he said, “Yes, mistress.”

Adaar climbed up on the bed to straddle his face and lowered herself onto his mouth. He grunted slightly, and she instantly shifted away, worried that she’d gone too far.

“Is that all right?” she whispered, reaching out for him. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not at all. Please. Please, my lady, let me taste you again.”

The smile returned to Adaar’s face. “Very good.” And she sunk down to ride against his mouth. When Blackwall controlled the pace, it was always maddeningly slow—delicious, but maddeningly slow—and now she let herself fuck his face, grinding against his flattened tongue as quickly and sloppily as she pleased. It didn’t take long until the friction inside her built up and burst; she gasped and quivered as her core pulsed white-hot. It took all her effort to remain upright. Her thighs wrapped tightly around Blackwall’s neck.

Once the pulsing subsided, Adaar took a long breath and moved back onto Blackwall’s chest. She smiled at him and brushed a few stray hairs from his chin. “Well done, soldier.”

Blackwall let out a low groan, his eyes dark and lustful. Adaar felt motion behind her and turned—his hand was wrapped tight around his cock. She growled, drawing him up to pull his mouth close to her face. “Did I give you permission to touch yourself?”

He smiled against her lips. “No, my lady.”

“You wicked creature.” She grabbed him by the wrists and held his hands above his head as she bit gently at his ear, as a warning—then again, harder. Pulling at his hair, she traveled further down and left another set of small red bite marks on his shoulder while she pinched tightly at his sensitive nipples.

Blackwall groaned, and Adaar met his eyes with a smile. Oh, he looked _magnificent_ lying there, completely surrendered to her, enraptured by the pain and pleasure. She continued down the line of his body, biting and sucking hard at the skin on his chest and upper thighs. He was trembling with anticipation.

She gave his wrists a squeeze. “If I let your hands go, do you promise to keep them still?”

“Yes. Yes, I will, I promise.”

She released her grip on his wrists and ran her hands down Blackwall’s scarred chest. When she grabbed his cock tightly, he seemed to let out a sigh of relief—but Adaar didn’t move her hand. He tried to thrust into her grip, but she stilled his hips. “Patience.”

He whimpered, but nodded. “I trust you, my lady.”

She rubbed tight circles on his nipples with one hand while the other stayed tight at the base of his cock. Then she slowly, slowly, licked down his erection while giving his balls a tight, sudden squeeze, and he cried out.

His cock was red and swollen, the tip leaking pre-cum. Adaar couldn’t resist taking it in her mouth, sucking down the length while her hand stayed firm at the base. She reveled in the neediness in his skin, the trembling in his touch, but when his hips bucked up into her mouth, she moved away, leaving his cock cold and wet. She gave his nipples another pinch, and he writhed under her, whimpering and wanting, his cheeks flushed and his lips swollen.

“My lady, please. Please, let me come.”

And he seemed so close to breaking, but Adaar knew he could manage it. She knew on a level she hardly understood, like the battle-instincts that had been trained into her since she could walk. Like Cole said about Iron Bull and Dorian—he submitted, but she _served_. Blackwall was wrong, he _did_ deserve her, and he deserved the utmost attention, and he deserved this.

“You’ve been very good,” she said softly, stroking his face. “What do you want, my soldier?”

“I want—” His face was flushed, his mouth slightly parted. “My lady, I want to be inside you.”

“Do you now? And have you earned it?”

“Yes, my lady. Yes, please, I’m yours, just let me come inside you—”

His words devolved into incoherent noise as she wrapped her hands tightly into his hair, pulling him up to sit as she slid down the length of his cock.

“You’re right, my dearest,” she said, lowering herself until she was filled to the hilt. “You’ve earned this.”

And then she fucked him pitilessly, riding him hard and fast until he came forcefully inside of her. A ragged cry escaped him as he buried his face in her shoulder. Adaar held him through his climax and basked in the heat of his hot breath against her skin and his hot seed seeping onto her thigh.

“Maker’s balls,” he panted after a long moment. “You—”

“Was that all right?” she asked.

“More than all right, that was—” He let out a shaky laugh. “Fuck. Maker’s breath, how did you know? How did you know that I needed something like this?”

Adaar smiled and kissed his forehead. “I know you.”

And then she hugged him, and held him close, and felt him whisper “I love you” against her cheek. She pretended she didn’t hear just so he would say it again.

**_______________**

The next day, they started the long journey back through Crestwood. It was another rainy, dark day, but Adaar didn’t mind it so much anymore. The grass was pleasantly damp beneath her feet, and the dark clouds above somehow looked soft enough to touch.

Behind her, Cole was speaking. “I understand, Blackwall. Making the Templar forget what he did to me is like making you forget Rainier.”

Blackwall spoke cautiously. “I... Yes. Perhaps.”

“My pain was his pain. It made the amulet not work. We both had to let it go.”

“But now he doesn't remember what he did.”

“Isn't me not hurting more important than him being punished?”

Blackwall sighed. “We are a pair, you and I. The victim and the murderer. If it helps you, lad, then I am glad you forgave him.”

Cole’s voice rose with emotion. “You think if you forget, you will become like that again. But you’re not him. You have other things to carry. You can put the bodies down.”

There was a silence, and then the man who had once called himself Blackwall said, “Thank you,” and although Adaar didn’t look back, she could feel his eyes on her.

Shadah Adaar smiled and continued along the path. There was still a long way to go.

**Author's Note:**

> First smut!  
> I should be working on a lot of other things right now, but that DA4 concept art has me thinking about Qunari women so anyway here’s Blackwall and his Hot Qunari Wife


End file.
